


Dr. Cyclonus or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb Disposal Expert

by txenriks



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Consensual, Fluff, M/M, Oral Sex, Size Difference, Sticky Sex, Wing Kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-27
Updated: 2013-08-07
Packaged: 2017-11-27 06:04:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/658750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/txenriks/pseuds/txenriks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This pairing has plenty of art but virtually no fics, so here, I give you a dumping ground for a couple of Cyclonus/Tailgate one-shots I've been working on that don't really fall into a greater narrative. Each chapter will be its own one-shot with its own description and content. Some will indeed be sex. I write really slow, but I hope you enjoy. (First two chapters written pre-issue #13, oops! Well, fuckit, I like this title and it's staying.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Reconsider

**Description:** There's some fan-debate over Cyclonus' cheek holes and whether its worse for sucking spikes. But to be frank, all that makes me want to do is make him put that tongue to use _**elsewhere**_.  
 **Warnings:** Sexual content--Sticky, Oral, Size Difference  
 **Rating:** M  
 **Continuity:** IDW Comics/More Than Meets The Eye  
 **Characters:** Cyclonus and Tailgate  
  


 

 

Cyclonus was far from a passive mech. But for all the control he held over the **_where_** and **_when_** of their relationship—never so much as a clasped servo in public, and unflinchingly patient in the face of dry spells that nearly made Tailgate (who was not a terribly lewd bot, all things considered) scream in sexual frustration—the choices he made for the **_what_** often held an unexpected air of _**subservience**_ , one that just became more and more apparent as time went on. After all, how many fairly large, dominant mechs exert their authority just to ride the spike of a minibot half their size?

 

Tailgate couldn’t tell whether this was due to Cyclonus’ unusual personal tastes, or if someone had, uh, **_trained him well_**. He knew better than to ask. Still, it came as a bit of a surprise when his tentative request to try something **_new_** resulted in his being hoisted up along the berth, settling with one little leg slung over each of the larger mech’s broad shoulders.

 

Now, there were enough nasty rumors circulating—among those crew members less inclined to appreciate the presence of an ex-officer for the Decepticons— that even Tailgate (now) knew holes in one’s cheeks aren’t exactly conductive to the sort of acts said crewmates insisted had earned Cyclonus his previous position. It wasn’t until that tongue swept across the rim of his valve cover that he remembered suction wasn’t the  ** _only_** thing a mech’s mouth was good for.

 

“Wh—oh. Oh,  ** _wow_**.” If Cyclonus was going to keep surprising him like this, perhaps he should invest in a better vocabulary with which to deal with it. Right now—sputtering static, servos hovering above that horned helm, uncertain exactly where would be the least disrespectful to touch—he isn’t exactly at his most eloquent. One more insistent exploration along the slit splitting his cover down the middle, and he caved, disengaging the locks that sealed his valve off from the world—and from Cyclonus.

 

At first, gut instinct and shyness had Tailgate wound up as tight as a helical spring, but as usual, he was extraordinarily easy to please—and even easier, it seemed, to reduce to whimpers. Each little flick of that tongue toyed with the sensitive nodes lining his outermost calipers, circuits completing at the graze of soft plating, only to be broken again in an instant.

 

Charge built and crackled faintly, electric arcs adding a metallic tang to the taste of the lubricant that now seeped from Tailgate’s valve in an unsteady trickle. What didn’t drip down to puddle beneath him was lapped up dutifully, almost hungrily, by Cyclonus—after all, like most of their by-products, it wasn’t **_so_** different from the energon from which it derived.

 

Needless to say, Tailgate’s decline into a squirming, panting mess was more like a nosedive. It didn’t help that Cyclonus’ engines were meant for the open air, not an enclosed habitation suite. When they roared, heat rolled off in waves of a magnitude no minibot could hope to combat. It was only a matter of cycles before every ventilation became labored and accompanied by an increasingly desperate mewl, his hips bucking up blindly into the sensation as it all became too much to bear.

 

As if on cue, large servos slid up the curves of his thighs to seize him by the waist, grip firm, but retaining the careful air that Cyclonus’ switch from claws to blunted fingers had been unable to completely eradicate. Tailgate whined as he was pinned, pawing wildly until he found something— ** _anything_** — to clutch—but even brute force couldn’t still him completely, nor could it quell the quivering in his thighs as the overload continued to burn its way through his systems in a heady, irresistible torrent.

 

When Tailgate’s optics finally came back online, he found that both of his arms were wrapped tight around Cyclonus’ remaining horn, clutching it to his chest. In the moment it took him to realize that he’d  ** _basically_** just committed the ultimate taboo, he noticed something else: Cyclonus wasn’t pulling away. Wasn’t shoving him off—just rumbling faintly, and in a way that didn’t seem entirely threatening at that. Still… better not push his luck.

 

“Sorry-- sorry!” The Autobot hastily released his grip, allowing the other mech to straighten out of the steep hunch he’d been inadvertently forced into.

 

Tailgate might’ve been looking like a total mess, but it was soon apparent that he wasn’t the only one. Turns out cheek holes have, ah… more than one disadvantage.

 

And, well—Pits, he’s already come this far. If Cyclonus really was so irritable that he’d flee at one unwanted touch, that moment getting yanked by the horn would’ve been an excellent time to speak up. So it’s with a trusting, sleepy sort of defiance that one servo lifts, wiping a smidge of the faintly glowing substance off Cyclonus’ chin with one stubby thumb. Taken aback—though whether it was at Tailgate’s impudence or his kindness, even Cyclonus wasn’t quite sure—the larger mech couldn’t even muster up a frown, merely watching the little hand withdraw until his minibot berthmate broke the silence.

 

“If you, uh—wanted to try…  ** _you know_**.” Tailgate confided in a hushed tone, pausing to clear his vocalizer into his palm in a faint burst of static. Cyclonus never let him just leave things at a polite hint. No, he had to come out and word everything as bluntly as the jet would himself, or he’d be here all night answering increasingly awkward questions. “…Spiking me, instead of the other way around… now might be your best chance.” Their difference in size was… significant, but Tailgate couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so satisfied, so… well.  ** _Loose_**.

 

For a klik, Tailgate almost wondered if Cyclonus had heard. It wouldn’t be the first time the jet ignored him, nor would it be the first time he’d declined the offer of an overload of his own. But then those watchful red optics shuttered, and Tailgate squeaked as large servos seized him by his ankles and dragged him back down the berth. And as close as that gruff voice grew in his receptors, the distance between their hips was far, far closer.

 

“I’ll consider it.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Description:** Fanfictions about Starscream and other seekers usually eroticize their wings to the Pits and back, but I've never seen a Tailgate/Cyclonus fic so much as take note that he's a flyer. Let's remedy that, shall we?  
 **Warnings:** Fluff. Slight Wingkink maybe? hahaha idk  
 **Rating:** ~E for Everyone~  
 **Continuity:** IDW Comics/More Than Meets The Eye  
 **Characters:** Cyclonus and Tailgate  


 

 

No one ever mentions Cyclonus’ wings.

 

In their defense, he’s about as far from the stereotype of a flyer as a mech can get. He’s no Seeker strutting about with them held perky and aloft, a constant broadcast of their mood, a constant temptation inviting in grounders with a taste for delicacies they’ve never had. Mounted as they were—so close and low on his shoulders—it seemed that even Cyclonus himself was apt to forget their existence, at least until the moment he needed them to fly.

 

And it made a kind of sense. For all the benefits they conferred in alt mode, when grounded, what were wings but a weakness? They were too telling for life among Decepticons, at least until Cyclonus schooled their twitchy tendencies as severely as his skull-like scowl—and too sensitive for a world in which the only mech with the authority to touch him used them exclusively as a target upon which to mete out punishment.

 

Now, though—Cyclonus had no home, served no master, yet nevertheless, the list of ‘bots daring enough to lay a servo on him had recently increased by one. Occasionally, in the considerable amount of time he had to himself, Cyclonus caught himself wondering what Galvatron would think of being “replaced” by an antiquated minibot. It might have been enough to make the old jet laugh, if he didn’t find the very thought of his former lord so deeply revolting.

 

Yes, no one ever had much cause to think about Cyclonus’ wings—no one but Tailgate.

 

Tailgate. Simpering, annoying, _pathetically naïve_. To him, Nova Prime’s Golden Age was just yesterday, and _that_ was something Cyclonus couldn’t quite abide—an ever-present reminder of the very past he pined for. Always a thorn in his side, always putting his foot in his mouth about things he couldn’t possibly understand, and for what? To fit in? Find a sense of  _belonging_? Perhaps it was a good thing he’d been offline for six million years. Going through _half_ of what Cyclonus had would’ve eaten him alive.

 

Still… the little pest was certainly persistent. And kind. And had bigger bearings than Cyclonus had originally given him credit for, even if half of that bravery was due to stupidity or sheer  _cheek_. Not every mech is willing to cozy up to a ticking time bomb… and not many diffuse explosives, either.

 

And Cyclonus wasn’t one to deny when he’d come to  _like_ a mech, for all their faults.

 

Or ignore it, when a mech he _liked_ seemed to suffer a spontaneous sputtering of his cooling fans any time their optics met.

 

Tailgate, of course, suspected nothing, harboring his ill-hidden crush right up until the moment he found himself plucked by the scruff and seated on his suitemate’s lap. But despite having somehow wormed his way into the jet’s rather inscrutable affections, despite having occasionally been permitted to share a berth over the last few orns, there was one place he was  _never_ allowed to touch, not without Cyclonus firmly relocating the offending limb.

 

Admittedly, Tailgate found that reaction a little strange—er, not that he had ever—not that he was one of  _those_ grounders, you know—but, well, the rumors about flyers’ wings hadn’t changed one bit in six million years, and he didn’t see why Cyclonus’ would be any different. …Would they?

 

There was only one way to find out. Problem was, he wasn’t quite sure how to get the other mech on board. Polite inquiries about Seeker culture only earned him a neutral stare and the dare-I-say-glib response of, “Why don’t you go ask one?” Offers to scrub those hard-to-reach places in the wash racks just resulted in his being firmly scooted out the door, arms whirling akimbo. Cyclonus recharged as lightly as if enemies still lurked around every corner, always woke long before his sleepy suitemate, and often slept slumped with his back to the wall, anyway. There’d be no sneaking up on  _that_ , not even if Tailgate changed functions and re-designated himself Mirage.

 

It wasn’t until the evening of one especially taxing day, when he was feeling so worn and weary that this matter of wings was the last thing on his processor, that Tailgate finally got his chance.

 

Cyclonus was seated cross-legged on the floor in front of their hab-suite window, meditating—a process Tailgate had made a valiant effort to learn, despite his unfortunate tendency to try striking up a conversation only a few cycles in. He was getting better at it every time, though. Really!

 

Tonight, though? The sight of Cyclonus silhouetted as the stars imperceptibly rolled past was just too, well—too striking to disturb, not even with his customary cheerful greeting. Instead, he crept quietly to the jet’s side and took a seat, amateurishly imitating the other’s perfect posture. And for once, Cyclonus eventually glanced his way, the first to speak.

 

“We’re never going to find what Rodimus seeks. We’re never going to make it back to  _that planet_ online.” The words were mild, spoken merely as fact, but they still caused Tailgate to reel backwards in shock.

 

“That’s not true!”

 

“Tch.” With that, Cyclonus turned away, about to shut down, turn dismissive. “You don’t know what you’re—“

 

“It’s not!” Such was the energy of the little bot’s conviction that he flew to his feet, visor flashing in a desperation not so distant from panic. It had been a long day for everyone on the Lost Light, and he didn’t want to think of  _that_ happening to any of them—not his friends, not himself, not Cyclonus. “I mean it! I’ll—I’ll fight you if you don’t believe me!” A few unimpressive jabs to the air only succeeded in reminding himself just how long it had been since he last threw that match-ending right hook.

 

Luckily for Tailgate, Cyclonus’ optics merely widened a hair for a moment—and then the larger mech let out a loud crow of laughter, reaching out to take the minibot by the helm and sit him back down as easily as a cat batting a toy. “No need. I believe that  _you_ believe it, at least—even if it  _is_ the product of your feckless optimism.”

 

“Cyclonus, I’m being  _serious_ …” Tailgate whined, rubbing his faceplates as if worried one had been dented. They hadn’t. “Look, I know you say I didn’t know you very well, back in Nova Prime’s day… and, well, yeah. Fair enough. I think the number of mechs I, uh, ‘knew well’ could be counted on one servo, before I got dragged into this crazy mess. But I knew enough to know that you’re better than this, that—that you cared. I think—I think you cared a lot, about Cybertron, anyway. I think you  _still_ do.”

 

“Do you, now.” The jet’s tone was as unreadable as his expression, though that in and of itself was usually a poor sign.

 

Doing his best to remain unfazed, Tailgate nodded earnestly. “Uh-huh. Why else would losing it hurt so much?”

 

After a moment, Cyclonus just snorted, shouldering back to his original position. The message was clear—that particular strain of the conversation, at least, was over. But Tailgate wasn’t quite ready to duck away, cowed into a fumbling apology. He didn’t even remember to avert his optics.

 

Cyclonus’ sharp features and tendency towards stillness had always lent him a certain statuesque quality, but combine that with chiaroscuro cast from the window and the reverent quality Cyclonus carried into meditation, and the scene became practically sacrosanct. Tailgate had always been a minibot, but in this moment he suddenly  _felt_ small, like a worshipper trailing along in the presence of something far greater than himself.

 

Unicron was unmistakably, irrevocably real, he’d been told—and Rewind’s archives had the footage to prove it. Tailgate supposed that meant Primus was, too. Hopefully the Light-Bringer wouldn’t mind too much if he reached up and touched the wing of the mech who just then—just now—felt a little like his God.

 

If Primus disapproved of a bit of heresy here and there, He certainly didn’t show it. Cyclonus, on the other servo, snapped back to stare at his believer, optics piercing the little mech where he sat. Tailgate froze, visor flaring anxiously. He was certain that any moment now, Cyclonus would glower, or growl, or pluck that little hand off as if it were no more than a bit of dirt marring his plating. Or, Primus forbid, do worse.

 

But the jet only vented one deeply put-upon huff and resumed his observation of the stars through the portside portal. “If you’re really that curious, you could have just  _asked_.”

 

“Sorry,” Tailgate dipped his helm in what he hoped was an appropriate approximation of penitence. Secretly, he was just elated, though he hardly dared to move lest it shatter whatever miracle had compelled Cyclonus into a tolerating mood. “I thought for sure if I asked, you’d say no.”

 

For some time, the jet didn’t respond, and Tailgate eventually chanced a cautious caress to the wing beneath his servo, digits tracing up the edge of that relatively delicate plating. It felt as though Cyclonus hadn’t permitted himself to relax in vorns— though, with some gentle coaxing, he gradually warmed to his touch, wing lowering a hair into Tailgate’s grasp by the time Cyclonus found his voice.

 

“I have known Decepticons who, upon taking power for themselves, felt entitled to it. As if they could take everything they wanted, through force or deceit, and ask for nothing.” He paused before continuing, words gruff, but more confession than rebuke. “You’ve made it clear you’ve chosen  _not_ to become one of them… so try to act like it, will you?” The words were kindly meant—for Cyclonus, anyway—but they did, at last, get the point properly across. Tailgate nodded, momentarily sober as he pressed his free hand over his spark.

 

“Got it. No more, uh, not being straightforward with you. I promise.” Pleased, and perhaps gaining just the slightest bit greater an understanding of the enigma that was his dour companion, the little bot scooted closer to that broad back—close enough to settle one stubby hand on each wing and resume his little backrub where it had left off. Maybe, just maybe, he felt them shudder slightly in his hands.

 

 

It was painfully obvious to Tailgate that he was nothing at all like the kind of mech Cyclonus was used to. What never occurred to him was that  _that_ might be precisely why he was wanted.


	3. Chapter 3

**Description:** What happened to these two after the comic cut away at Hedonia? Idea born ages ago because gosh darnit, bots with legit visors and permanent facemasks need a little love too.  
 **Warnings:** None.  
 **Rating:** ~E for Everyone~  
 **Continuity:** IDW Comics/More Than Meets The Eye  
 **Characters:** Cyclonus and Tailgate  


This “shore leave” had been, for all intents and purposes, completely ridiculous. 

Pretending to be organics. Having to share the same air with Whirl. Ultra Magnus overcharged out of his processor. A gift shop filled with goods that were both impractical and overpriced. And to top it all off, he’d effectively cemented the general consensus that he’s haywired, simply by pulling that stunt while in the company of the ship’s resident blabbermouth—not that he gave a frag about the opinions of a ragtag gaggle of Autobots. And all for… what? 

…As it turns out, for a fourth-class sluicer trying desperately to be something he’s not.

Now—with the last chords of their little music lesson fading, and the sun starting to rise into the skies of Hedonia—Cyclonus found himself…oddly at peace. Little of significance had actually changed. The others’ troubles, their petty drama and insecurities, would sink back in eventually. But for the moment? Perhaps this vacation hadn’t been so bad, after all.

At least Tailgate had stopped crying. And started talking. Effusively. That was one part of his personality, at least, that seemed not to have been part of his elaborate ruse. And for once, Cyclonus didn’t mind letting him prattle. Allowing Tailgate to speak freely could sometimes prove… informative. After all, there was much about this little mech’s behavior that he still did not understand.

“Just because I’m lying to most of—okay, ALL of the crew,” Tailgate was saying, hastily correcting himself as soon as he was seared by the _look_ Cyclonus shot his way, “That doesn’t mean that I’m not _me_.”

“You would have a rather difficult time disguising that,” Cyclonus agreed. Though it was delivered in the most derogatory of deadpans, Tailgate nevertheless chose to take the jet’s words in the best possible light. 

“Right!” The minibot sighed gratefully, glad that _someone_ understood. “I’m just… starting over. Turning over a new leaf. You understand that, don’t you, Cyclonus?”

He did. In fact, the comment hit close enough to home that Cyclonus actually glanced Tailgate’s way, wondering, for a moment, if the allusion to—well, _several_ transitions in his past—had been intentional. But no. The minibot gazed back, posture relaxed under the mild buzz of intoxication, visor predictably wide and unassuming. Interpreting the larger mech’s silent reaction as something acceptably close to an affirmative, Tailgate settled back on his stool, helm tucking ever so slightly back into his hood in the way he sometimes did when feeling completely at ease. If Cyclonus didn’t know better, he’d almost think the little fellow didn’t have a guileful gear in his body. 

Almost. 

“Anyway…” it took the little bot a moment or two to recall his train of thought—or perhaps he was simply working up the nerve to speak. “…Thank you, for… all that back there. You’re a good suite-mate, Cyclonus.” 

The visor was an easy crutch to hide behind, but Cyclonus was sharper than most. And beneath it, Tailgate never could _quite_ look another mech in the optic when lying. 

Tailgate wasn’t telling the full truth now.

“Look me in the optic, Tailgate,” Cyclonus cut in gruffly, alarming the smaller mech across the table. After a moment passed, it became clear that his point was not being understood, so he continued, tone softening a hair. “Then tell me what you really think.” 

“What I really…?” To his credit, Tailgate _did_ manage to hold eye contact—briefly, before quailing and averting his attention downward, fingertips tip-tapping together before him in anxiety. “Well, Cyclonus, I… I like you… you know? S-sometimes I, uh, ahaha… I kinda wish I could _be_ you…”

That earned him a raised optical ridge. “Be me?”

“Well, yeah. You’re just… really…” Still staring at his pedes, Tailgate trailed off into an uncertain mumble. Cyclonus resisted the urge to vent a sigh. Tailgate was not… intolerable company. Dare he say, the attitude he held towards the little scamp had begun to turn more and more towards the realm of “vaguely fond.” But he had given him one simple instruction, and it was becoming increasingly apparent that Tailgate was not capable of following it unaided.

Impatient and admittedly, slightly curious, Cyclonus reached out to—lightly— tip Tailgate’s helm upwards by the chin, paying no mind to the minibot’s soft peep of confusion or the little hands that settled, puzzled, upon his wrist. 

Visors—of the sort Tailgate had, at least—weren’t meant to retract on command. Though organics sometimes confused them for their own removable accessories, visors were actually just a larger variation of the smaller, twin optical shields that many mechs sported—Cyclonus included. The protection they offered the _actual_ optical lens beneath was no less necessary than “choosing” whether to ventilate. 

Nevertheless, if the light hit at _just_ the right angle, perhaps---ah, there. At last, Cyclonus could spy the two optics themselves—currently cycled wide in surprise, bright beneath blue glass. They weren’t anything special, really—little more than spiraling apertures that adjusted their width for mood and focus. One could glimpse them on occasion as their bearer turned his helm this way and that, but few bothered to actively _find_ them, let alone hold their gaze directly. 

Actually… Tailgate wasn’t sure anyone ever had. 

The moment passed. The claws beneath his chin loosened and let go, but the close proximity, the direct visual contact, remained. 

Tailgate couldn’t help himself. He tipped forward.

“What are you doing?”

“Uhhh.” Tailgate whipped back faster than if he’d been slapped. Pits. There go his fans—even as he felt his fuel pump clank figuratively down to the bottom of his chassis. “N-nothing.”

One corner of Cyclonus’ bony mouth lifted, half-smirk or half-sneer—but even now, with yet another blatant fib told right to his faceplates, he never once made that ultimate condemnation. Never trotted out “liar,” the end-all trump card they both knew sat unused in his arsenal. 

It would have been accurate. Pits, it would have even been easy—as easy as leaving Tailgate to the Sparkeater’s mercy, as easy as letting Rewind’s recording roll uninterrupted. Primus knows the minibot had yet to completely break his bad habit of fabricating falsehoods any time reality felt too frightening to face. Worse, Primus knows he… he sometimes lied _just for the hell of it_ , just to bask in the completely alien sensation of being seen as someone impressive, someone worthwhile. And because of that, Tailgate knew he deserved far less than _trust_ , let alone trust from an ancient aristocrat who didn’t seem to trust…well, _anybody_.

But instead, Cyclonus waits—neutral, knowing, quietly _daring_ Tailgate to keep it up, to see exactly what’s at stake to be lost should his hand ever be forced. 

“Are you sure about that?” 

Tailgate’s vocalizer caught as he choked in a vent. Truth—the exposure of it, the inevitable disdain and rejection that followed—was a terrifying prospect to face, but he hated _this_ more. Hated finally having something to live up to—someone expecting better of him, the _real_ him—only to end up a _disappointment._

“I—I was—trying to… kiss y—I thought— …it was stupid.”

“Yes. It was,” Cyclonus agreed, but one set of claws settled atop the minibot’s hood and pulled him in anyway. With Tailgate’s mask and Cyclonus’ skull-like visage, they had a whopping total of maybe a half of a lip between them—but facial sensors were facial sensors, and the faint lick of electricity where faceplates brushed felt _fantastic_.

At least, until Cyclonus gently pried Tailgate’s fingers from the sides of his helm and reminded him that they still had a ship to catch. 

Tailgate’s first attempt at a reply was barely coherent. His second and third weren’t much better, but even so, he slid off his stool and nodded. According to his chronometers, they had just enough time to get back before takeoff—and anyway, the few patrons still determined to up their blood-alcohol content before sunrise were gawking shamelessly. Apparently they’d never seen two Cybertronians swap static before.

Not more than a few moments later, any Hedonians still out and about (assuming they were in control of their higher faculties) were treated to a rather unusual sight—an aircraft of unknown origin, clearly traveling at a fraction of its usual speeds, occasionally circling back so as to never leave a certain diminutive land buggy too far behind. 

After all, Cyclonus couldn’t have him falling in another hole for six million years. 


End file.
